The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  With his mouth still full of plum pudding and cider, the hare leaped up and went sprawling. He bolted upright and saluted. ‘Thank you, marm. I wish to say . . .’

  Drogg Cellarhog blinked and wiped a paw across his face. ‘Don’t you mean you wish to spray? Finish eatin’ first!’

  Boorab swallowed hastily and looked regally down his nose at Drogg. ‘Mind y’manners, old chap, wot! Er, where was I? Oh yes. Blinkin’ long probation, but thank you, marm, and you too, Mother Abbess. I say, flippin’ ottermaid young enough t’be one’s daughter an’ one’s got to call her Mother. Bit thick, wot! Ahem, in honour of the jolly old occasion, marm, I shall play my haredee gurdee and sing for you. Now what is your pleasure? A ballad, a dirge, a song of unrequited love, wot?’

  Cregga lay back and smiled fondly. ‘Nothing mournful or sad, if you please. Play me . . . a rousing old marching song, so I can . . . remember the good old days when I ruled the hares of the Long Patrol at Salamandastron. A special . . . favourite of mine was “The Battle of the Boiling Water”. Do you . . . know it, Boorab?’

  The hare was already making complicated adjustments to his cumbersome instrument. He chuckled confidently. ‘Know it, marm? I learned it sittin’ on my old grandpa’s lap. You remember him, of course, old Pieface Baggscut, the most perilous an’ greedy hare in the regiment. ’Twas his favourite song, too. Ah, those were the long sunny days, marm—’

  Foremole Brull twitched the hare’s bobbed tail. ‘Stop ee jawin’ an’ sing yurr song, zurr!’

  Boorab twiddled the strings, struck a small drum and wound a handle. Three ladybirds flew out of the instrument in a cloud of dust. He launched lustily into the song.

  ‘Well I have to sing of a day in spring,

  When I kissed me wife an’ daughter,

  Then marched away to join the fray,

  At the Battle of the Boiling Water.

  With a tear in me eye and an apple pie,

  I roared the jolly chorus,

  As the drums did roll for the Long Patrol,

  We conquered all before us!

  There was Colonel Stiff an’ Sergeant Biff,

  Who had a wooden leg sah,

  And in the lead, oh yes indeed,

  Stood Lady Rose Eyes Cregga,

  There was Corporal Black the big lancejack,

  An’ meself a half ear shorter,

  An’ a small fat cook with a dirty look,

  At the Battle of the Boiling Water!’

  As the drums on the haredee gurdee boomed out and Redwallers pounded the tabletops to the jolly marching air, Cregga went back in her mind. She was young and strong, her sight was perfect, and she was striding the dusty flatlands at the head of a thousand young marching hares, carrying her enormous axepike. No day was too long then, no march too tiresome. Like smoke, a dust column rose in a plume in their wake on that high far-off day, long long ago. She hummed the jaunty tune, revelling in the summer heat, glad to be alive and so full of strength. Smiling and nodding to her trusty officers, every one dashing and perilous, the sight of their faces delighting her. Sight. What a glorious gift it was. Blue skies, the sun, like a golden eye, watching over white mountaintops, green valleys, clear meandering streams. The misty figure of Boorab’s grandsire appeared before her on the march and threw her a gallant salute with his sabre blade.

  ‘All present an’ correct, marm. Where to now?’

  Cregga heard herself saying, ‘Into the setting sun, over the hills and far away.’

  Boorab’s voice, and the music of the haredee gurdee, faded slowly as she marched off into the sunny afternoon long gone.

  ‘So we ate our scoff an’ the war kicked off,

  ’Twas a day of fearsome slaughter,

  An’ a skinny rat shot off me hat,

  At the Battle of the Boiling Water.

  Then the good old sarge just yelled out “Charge!”

  Ten thousand vermin scattered,

  While the puddens flew ’til the air turned blue,

  All steamed an’ fried an’ battered!

  Well I knocked the socks off a fluffy fox,

  An’ walloped a weasel wildly,

  I snaffled the coat off a snifflin’ stoat,

  An’ flattened a ferret finely.

  We whacked an’ thumped an’ kicked an’ jumped,

  We showed the foe no quarter.

  ’Til they ran away an’ we won the day,

  At the Battle of the Boiling Water!’

  Mhera was holding the Badgermum’s paw, and felt her slip away at the end of the second verse. The ottermaid sat at her friend’s side, still holding her limp paw and staring at her smiling face. Cregga looked so peaceful and happy. Boorab finished his song, bowing and posing outrageously as the haredee gurdee groaned and wheezed to a halt amid the cheering and stamping of applauding Redwallers. Sister Alkanet saw Mhera sitting dry-eyed at the badger’s side, looking into her still face. Sensing something was wrong, the Sister hastened over, followed by Filorn, who nodded to Boorab, indicating he should sing the song again as an encore. Nobeast noticed, amid the gaiety, what was going on at the bed beneath Martin the Warrior’s tapestry.

  Alkanet leaned close to Mhera and whispered, ‘What is it? Has Cregga Badgermum fallen asleep?’

  Mhera touched the sightless eyes, closing them for the last time. ‘Aye, Sister. Our Badgermum has finally gone to rest for ever.’

  A tear brimmed from Alkanet’s eye. Mhera wiped it away. ‘Not now, Sister, we’ll weep later. Don’t let them know Cregga is gone. Carry on with the feast in her honour; that’s what she would have wanted. Chin up now, be brave!’

  Sister Alkanet turned to Filorn, and there was awe in her voice. ‘Truly your daughter is the Mother Abbess of Redwall!’

  * * *

  33

  Soft autumn mists swathed the dunes, awaiting their banishment under a blossoming sun. Gruven sat atop one of the sparsely grassed dunetops, listening to waves breaking upon the shores below him. He had spent more than a score of days tracking betwixt dawn and nightfall. The trail was becoming distinctly easier to follow as he travelled south. For some reason, unknown to him, the Juskazann had moved location. He had arrived at the original camp only to find the site abandoned. The clan had travelled south, skirting the tideline and dunelands.

  Gruven picked the last crumbs of a pasty from his chair, gulped the final dregs of cordial from a flask and hurled it away into the mist. His supplies were exhausted for the moment, but he could always find more. Several mornings ago he had sighted wisps of woodsmoke. A family of mice had dug their cave into the side of a wind-sculpted sandhill, and were sitting in the entrance cooking breakfast. Gruven sneaked up to the hilltop overhanging their home. His callous method of murder was simple: he collapsed the sandhill on them by jumping up and down on the overhang. After taking a few hours nap, he had dug out all the food supply that was not spoilt, leaving the occupants smothered beneath the stifling avalanche of sand which had snuffed out their lives.

  Watching the sun spread welcoming warmth and light, Gruven sat mentally rehearsing his story, cutting parts and embellishing bits until it sounded good to him. Next he practised indignation and righteous wrath at the moving of camp during his absence. Perhaps he would root out the culprits and slay them, just to establish his authority as clan Chieftain, Gruven Zann Juskazann.

  Leaving the dunes, he took to the firm damp sand of the tideline for better walking. There was no real need of further tracking. He knew the clan would establish another camp among the dunes; all he had to do was look out for the smoke of cooking fires. Around early noon, Gruven became bored. It was a warm day with virtually no wind. He sidetracked listlessly into the dunes and lay down in a sandy crater. It was pleasantly warm and he allowed his eyes to shut and drifted into a comfortable nap.

  He had only lain there a short while when he was rudely awakened. He was rolled roughly over, and the sword was snatched from his belt. A noosed rope was thrust over him, pinioning both paws to his sides. Ther
e were four of them, two weasels, a stoat and a rat, and they looked lean and tough. Gruven felt fear rise sourly in his throat, but he did his best to put on a hard face and a gruff voice.

  ‘Wot’s the meanin’ of all this? Who are ye?’

  The bigger of the weasels, a female named Gruzzle, prodded him with the point of his own sword. ‘Shut yer mouth an’ get up off yer behind!’

  Struggling upright, Gruven recognised one of his old clan, the rat Wherrul. However, he looked different. His facial tattoos had been overlaid with green wavy lines on the brow and a yellow circle on either cheek. Gruven felt a surge of relief.

  ‘Wherrul, mate, wot are you doin’ with these beasts? Yore a Juskazann, just like me. Wot’s ’appened?’

  Wherrul began yanking Gruven along on the rope. He did not sound at all friendly. ‘I ain’t Juskazann no more. We got taken over. I’m part of a big clan now, the Juskabor!’

  Further conversation was cut short as Gruzzle prodded Gruven with the sword. ‘I’ve already tole you t’shut yer mouth, I won’t tell yer agin. Now get movin’. You can do yer talkin’ in front o’ the chief!’

  It was late noon by the time Gruven was hauled stumbling into the new camp. Right away he noticed that the number of tents had increased fourfold, enough to accommodate at least three hundred Juska. Familiar faces from his old tribe stared at him as he was dragged along. They all had their former Juska marks tattooed over like Wherrul. All in all they looked a warlike mob. There were a lot more foxes in evidence, too. Gruzzle halted in front of a large well-made tent, painted with lots of coloured symbols, and kicked Gruven flat in the sand.

  ‘Stay there, you three, an’ watch ’im!’

  She threw back the tent flap and entered. A moment later she marched out again, three others with her. One was Grissoul the old vixen Seer, accompanied by another equally wizened vixen, who carried all the paraphernalia of a seer or soothsayer. But it was the third that Gruven instinctively knew was the Chieftain.

  Ruggan Bor was an impressive figure, a big male fox, golden rather than reddish furred, with no black tip to his tail. His face was inscrutable, but one glance informed Gruven that the hard golden eyes were those of a born slayer. He was dressed simply, in a short black shoulder cloak and a black kilt. A sabre was thrust through his broad chain-linked belt. Ruggan Bor gave Gruven the briefest of glances, then turned to Grissoul.

  ‘Is this the one who took over from Sawney Rath?’

  Grissoul bowed fawningly. ‘That he be, lord: Gruven Zann, the stoat who vowed to slay the Taggerung.’

  Ruggan nodded to Gruzzle, who leaped forward promptly. ‘Loose yonder rope an’ return his weapon.’ The weasel obeyed immediately and without question.

  Gruven realised he was not going to be executed on the spot. The knowledge gave him fresh confidence, and he decided to bluff his way along. Ruggan Bor obviously had him tagged as a warrior. Swaggering forward, he faced the Juska Chieftain, leaning on the sword and narrowing his eyes like a veteran killer. However, he did not attempt to speak. Something told him that Ruggan was not a beast to be taken lightly. The big golden fox had not moved a muscle, yet his eyes looked Gruven up and down.

  ‘You are the son of the stoat they called Antigra?’

  Gruven had to swallow visibly before he answered. ‘Aye.’

  Ruggan Bor’s paw strayed close to his sabre. ‘I am Ruggan Bor of the Juskabor, Lord of the South Coasts. I took your clan, the Juskazann, and added it to my own. Antigra, your mother, plotted against me. I slew her.’

  Gruven found it difficult to keep up his attitude of bravado as Ruggan continued, his face still expressionless, ‘So, Gruven Zann, do you wish to take revenge for your mother? Are you going to challenge me as Chieftain of these Juska? You stand armed and free before me. If you are going to do anything, now would be the time to do it.’

  Gruven’s nerve had already failed him. He knew he was a deadbeast if he lifted the sword. Yet if he was ever to become leader of the clan he could not lose face, so he played his ace card, hoping bluster and bragging would impress the fox warrior. Swelling his chest, he snarled aloud, ‘My name now is Gruven Zann Taggerung. Eight warriors left camp to track him with me. Only I have returned; the others lie dead. I slew the Taggerung!’

  Ruggan turned to his own vixen Seer. ‘Ermath, what do your omens say?’

  The vixen shrugged. ‘Nought, lord. I saw no signs of a Taggerung’s death.’

  The burning golden eyes faced Grissoul. ‘And you?’

  She averted her gaze humbly. ‘I cannot say, lord. Who knows if the Taggerung still lives?’

  Gruven interrupted her harshly. ‘I do! The Taggerung still lives because I am Taggerung now. Did you not say that the beast who slew him would take on his name? You said it to me before I left!’

  Grissoul was caught between two fires. Maybe Gruven had done the deed, but then maybe he had not. She preferred to go with the one she knew was a Warrior Chieftain, tried and tested. Ruggan Bor.

  ‘Gruven Zann, thou vowed to bring back the Taggerung’s head. Where is it?’

  Gruven sneered. He had already thought of this answer. ‘The days have been hot, more than a score and a half of them. What warrior in his right mind would carry such a thing that long? I gave it back to the flies when I reached the old camp!’ Thoroughly roused now, and carried along on the surge of his manufactured anger, Gruven turned upon Ruggan Bor. ‘My word is my honour as a Juska warrior. I tell you ’twas I who slew the otter they called Taggerung. With this sword!’

  The golden eyes stared levelly at him out of the expressionless face, though the fox’s paw was now on his sabre hilt. ‘So you say, Gruven Zann. But you have not answered my first question. Are you going to avenge your mother or challenge me for the chieftainship?’

  Gruven had been doing some quick thinking. ‘We are both mighty warriors,’ he shot back. ‘The clan would gain nothing by our loss. You know of the Taggerung, of his reputation. When you cannot find him you will realise I am the real Taggerung. Then we will let the whole of the Juska decide who is leader!’

  Ruggan Bor signalled to Gruzzle. ‘Take six Juska, find Gruven Zann a tent of his own, give him food and guard him well.’ He turned his back on Gruven, dismissing him. ‘I will give you my answer tomorrow. Attend me here to break fast.’ He strode back into his tent, followed by the two Seers.

  Gruven was taken care of. His food was of the best, roasted seabird and barley wine. He sat eating, his mind racing. Was he an honoured guest or a prisoner? Did Ruggan Bor regard him as a warrior and a slayer, or had he seen through the bluff? Were the vermin outside an honour guard or jailers? Gruven decided he had some serious thinking to do.

  Ruggan sat with his Seers, watching them toss bones and shells, sometimes tracing patterns in the sand, occasionally burning feathers and herbs as they chanted by the fire. He waited patiently until they were finished and listened to the verdicts.

  ‘Lord, ’tis still the same. The omens are cloudy.’

  ‘Aye, lord, mayhap time will reveal the answers.’

  The golden fox looked from one apprehensive face to the other. ‘Time reveals all, but this one looks like a born plotter with a ready tongue, too ready methinks. I have not got time to wait while he schemes behind my back. There is something I do not like about that stoat. If I was the slayer of a Taggerung, nobeast would dare stand against me. Why did he not choose to fight if he is such a mighty one? I slew his mother, took over his clan. Anybeast who did that to Ruggan Bor would be feeding the sea fishes by now. Leave me. I will reach my own conclusions on this!’

  Dawn crept in like a misted ghost. Ruggan Bor sat impassive by the fire embers in his tent. He narrowed one eye and stared at the back of the guard’s neck until the ferret outside his tent turned and saluted with his spear. ‘Lord!’

  It was a trick Ruggan had learned through long seasons of commanding Juska vermin. They always felt his eyes upon them.

  ‘Tell my cook to bring vittles for two, then go and br
ing Gruven Zann to me here.’

  Gruven had got into the habit of sleeping late, and he was still blinking and stifling yawns when he was marched into Ruggan’s tent. Hiding the contempt he felt for lazybeasts, Ruggan nodded.

  ‘Sit, eat, and answer my questions truthfully, Gruven Zann!’

  Gruven sat down and began eating, a cornmeal porridge with shellfish in it. He felt rather resentful that his host should ask him to answer truthfully, even though he was prepared to lie at every turn.

  Ruggan did not eat as he interrogated his guest. ‘Where was it, this place where you slew the Taggerung?’

  Gruven slopped down blackberry wine mixed with water. ‘At the old camp site, I think.’

  ‘But you said you carried the head until you reached the old camp and threw it away there.’

  Gruven drank long and slow as he prepared an answer. ‘Oh, yes. That was where I first saw him. I tracked him north for three days before I killed him. Then I returned to the old camp, to see if anybeast had come back there. There were still no signs of Juska back at the camp, so I threw the head away.’ He waited with bated breath while Ruggan considered this.

  ‘I see. Then you found our tracks and followed them. Tell me, why did you not notice the traces of us breaking camp when you first arrived there?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Gruven explained hastily, the food and drink forgotten as he cursed himself inwardly for his silly mistake. ‘Well, er, I was tracking a Taggerung, a dangerous and savage beast. I wasn’t looking for other trails. Would you?’

  Ruggan Bor slowly poured himself wine, mingling it with water. ‘Hmm, I see, that makes sense. Finish eating, we have to go.’

  Gruven wiped a paw across his lips, taken by surprise. ‘Go? Where to?’

  The fox’s eyes stared at him over the goblet rim. ‘To the old camp, of course. We must find the Taggerung’s head. If you have spoken the truth, you have done what no other warrior alive has ever done. Slain a Taggerung. Have you eaten enough?’